


Steven, or the soldiers

by mlle



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Regency Romance, blatant misuse of Waterloo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlle/pseuds/mlle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer of 1815 was by all accounts the most charming on record in the neighborhood of —shire. The weather was fine, the parties were finer still, and every person in company commented that they had never known a sweeter season, nor did they ever wish to. It was a summer of national importance, if my reader will remember, but there is much that was not set down in the history books. </p><p>There was, to bring forward but one minor local tale, the story of the house of —shield, and of the two American military men who found themselves quartered there and ever after changed by the course of nature and their hearts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steven, or the soldiers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saturn_shumba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturn_shumba/gifts).



> The lovely Rhea asked me to write Bucky and Steve falling in love in the Regency era. 
> 
> This fic begs that you forgive its implausibility, historical inaccuracies, and general ridiculousness.

The summer of 1815 was by all accounts the most charming on record in the neighborhood of —shire. The weather was fine, the parties were finer still, and every person in company commented that they had never known a sweeter season, nor did they ever wish to. It was a summer of national importance, if my reader will remember, but there is much that was not set down in the history books.

There was, to bring forward but one minor local tale, the story of the house of —shield, and of the two American military men who found themselves quartered there and ever after changed by the course of nature and their hearts. 

Captain Steven Rogers had come to England in the last days of the War of 1812 in the interest of America and the scant, unpopular, though ultimately prescient, hope that a peace could be negotiated between the two lands. His English hosts had taken one look at his squared jaw, bright eyes, and pleasing physique, and whisked him from London faster than he protest. True politics, they claimed, were practiced not in the dark and stuffy rooms of Parliament, but rather in any number of spacious and comfortable country homes, just like the one to which they were now taking our hero. 

Captain Rogers, it must be said, was not a stupid man, nor a retiring one—but he allowed himself to be driven out in the name of diplomacy. 

So it was that the captain found himself summering at —shield, and so it was that the Lady Natasha happened upon him in the middle of the great hall on the night of the season’s first ball. He cut a fine figure in his borrowed formal dress, though it must be said that he wore a coat meant for a slightly smaller man, and as a result it stretched over his shoulders in a way that drew especial attention from the ladies and, indeed, some of the men. 

Steve, as he had insisted repeatedly that his hosts call him, was standing apart from the crush of people waiting their turn to dance. Lady Natasha took him by the elbow and steered him across the room. “And how are you enjoying our English hospitality?” she asked.

“It’s quite a spectacular,” Steve answered, waving his free hand at the scores of couples dancing, and those waiting to take their turn. “A battlefield if I ever saw one.”

Her laugh was merry and throaty. “I’ve someone I’d like to introduce you to.” She spun him to the left and stopped abruptly in front of a tall Englishman whom Steve vaguely remembered meeting, and a shorter, firmly-built man with longish hair pulled back in a tie. “Are you sitting the next one out as well, then?” the Englishman was asking his companion.

“Hell, it looks that way,” the man said. His accent was distinctly American. Steve thought he seemed familiar, but couldn’t place him from this vantage point. “Can’t understand it for the life of me—back home, I could always find a partner to stand up with.”

Lady Natasha cleared her throat, drawing their attention. “I’ve brought you a partner, James.”

The American turned and Steve felt himself go stone-still with the shock. “Bucky?” he asked, incredulity apparent in his tone.

Bucky—for that was indeed the childhood nickname by which Steve had called him—paused as well, his face an unreadable mask. “Steve Rogers,” he said slowly. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

The two stared at each other, and Steve felt his face flush in the manner of the heroine in some novel. He made to inch away, but Lady Natasha kept her steel grip on his elbow.

“Oh, delightful,” she said. “You two already know each other, and so no lengthy introductions are needed. Now, the next song is just about to begin, and I demand that you make your hostess happy and pair up.” She gave Steve a little push.

He didn’t stumble more than a little, and Bucky put out a gentlemanly hand to steady him. “One dance,” Bucky said quietly. “It’ll be over soon enough.”

Steve nodded and let himself be led out onto the floor. They took their place amongst the other couples, who looked delightful in their finery. “I’m not sure I ever learned the steps to this one,” Steve said with a wry smile.

“It’s easy,” came Bucky’s rejoinder. “Just do what everyone else does. And remember to turn to the right.”

The music struck up then, and the dance began. Steve found that he could follow without too much trouble—a strange feeling for a captain, we must note, who was more used to leading—and soon, the steps were natural enough that Steve felt it was his social duty to speak to his partner. 

Bucky beat him to the opening gambit. “Of all the balls in all the world, am I right?” he said, shaking his head. “And here we haven’t seen each other since we were kids. What are you doing here?”

“I’m a guest of the British War Office. But I can’t say more.” 

Bucky laughed. The dance steps brought them in close together. “Come to charm a treaty out of them? I’m surprised you’re here, then, and not in France.”

Steve flushed again, this time with a tinge of anger. “I don’t like bullies,” he said simply, “and Napoleon is the worst of the lot.”

Bucky gripped his hand firmly as they executed a turn. “You’re not wrong,” he commented. “The Tsar—” 

The music ended then with a flourish and the dancers applauded noisily. 

“Well, anyway,” Bucky continued. “That was my one dance, and I almost let my tongue get away from me.” He turned and exited the floor. Steve was left alone, staring at his retreating figure, until a couple bumped into him and shook him from his confused reverie.

 

—

 

Had Steve truly been the heroine of a novel, as he felt so keenly at that ball, this would be the point in our narrative where the dashing young James Barnes, known to his childhood friend as Bucky, would disappear for at least the remainder of this volume. Steve would be menaced by other gentlemen, none truly deserving of that title. There would perhaps be a thrilling abduction in a carriage, and Steve’s honor would be in the gravest danger, and the dark-haired, finely muscled Mr. Barnes would reappear only after Steve had undergone trials enough to prove himself virtuous and good, lasting exactly the length the author needed draw her readers in, and ensure that her book would be the first out from every circulating library in the country.

But this is not that kind of story. The true history is something more like this: though Bucky abandoned the ball that night, he was likewise domiciled at —shield for the summer, and he and Steve saw much of each other. They passed nights together in the parlor, reading or writing letters or playing cards. They hunted together with the hosts, and Bucky proved himself the finest shot in the district. They frequently found themselves in solitary company on long walks through the park, though they learned very quickly not to speak politics or military tactics to one another. For though they agreed on some basic principles, the impression Steve always received was that they were attacking the same problem from opposite angles, and their separate approaches could never be brought into harmony with one another. 

Steve felt his affections grow as the summer progressed, but despite that Bucky was always amenable to a turn around the house’s gardens, Steve was certain that Bucky held him in no particular regard. He felt, Steve was sure, the affections of childhood friendship, and no other. 

For his part, Steve did his best to keep his strengthening feelings in check. And if he indulged himself, on occasion, in the fantasy of another dance or an even more intimate moment, perhaps in the turn of the garden path where the rose bushes hid all from view, he took comfort in only doing so at night, alone in his well-appointed room, with his mouth pressed firmly shut so as to stifle any noises of pleasure that might otherwise escape his lips as he reached under his bedclothes and took himself in hand. 

 

—

 

Thus Steve expected the summer to go on, perhaps endlessly, or at least until his superiors realized that he was failing at his intended task and hauled him home to explain himself. But in the end, it was nothing of American ingenuity that solved the nations’ pressing problems, and Steve’s as well. It was a battle they called Waterloo. 

As a complete history of this British military triumph can be located in a many another work, this text must instead take up only the effect Napoleon’s stunning defeat had on our hero. The house rejoiced with the news of the battle, as did the whole of England. Steve rejoiced too, but his heart felt heavy as well, for he knew that now he really would be called home.

He slipped away from the impromptu festivities easily enough, and took refuge in the turn of the garden path where he knew the rosebushes made it difficult, though not impossible, to find him. 

So it was that he was hidden from view when Bucky came upon him that afternoon. 

“Here to ask me why I’m not celebrating?” Steve said, with a touch of bitterness.

“No,” Bucky replied. “But now that you mention it…” He trailed off with a look fixed on Steve’s blue eyes.

“A victory means an end to hostilities in the New World,” Steve said.

“Which is what we’ve both been working for,” Bucky reminded him.

“But it also means going home. And as much as I hate to admit it…” Steve paused. Unable to help himself, he cast a hopeful look in Bucky’s direction. “I’ll miss certain things here.”

“The dancing?” Bucky asked dubiously.

“The gardens,” Steve said.

“And?”

Our hero drew a deep breath. “And… and you.” He stared hard at the ground, not daring to look up and see the effect his words might have had. 

But his gaze was startled forwards by Bucky’s laugh. “Oh, thank god,” he said, a crooked but irresistible smile affixed to his face. “I thought you’d never admit it.” 

Steve stood stock still, uncomprehending, as Bucky stepped forward deliberately. “I’m going back to America, too,” he said. Steve furrowed his brow. “We can book passage together, if you like.”

“Why would we…” The question died in the air as Bucky rested his hands on Steve’s hips. 

“Because I’d miss you too,” Bucky said simply, and leaned up to press his lips against Steve’s. The kiss instantly melted all of the fear, the hesitation, the brave front Steve had felt himself struggling to keep up. 

Bucky pressed him back against an oak tree just off the path. As they kissed, their hips fitted together, and Bucky let out a soft moan between their mouths. His hands gripped Steve’s hips, and Steve let his hands tangle in Bucky’s hair, disheveling it appealingly.

They stole long moments like that, and Steve could barely believe that what he’d once thought of only in fantasy had come so tantalizingly to life. 

It may have been hours, or only a quarter of one short hour later, when they broke apart at the sound of Lady Natasha’s voice echoing through the garden. “Steven! James! Do please get yourselves in order before I round this corner.”

Bucky laughed into the small space between them. “Better listen to the lady,” he said. He leaned back in and nipped at Steve’s lower lip.

“But tonight….?” Steve asked breathlessly.

“Tonight,” Bucky answered, his smile full of an impish promise. “And on the boat. And whenever and where ever else you like.”

It was a promise he kept, and kept again.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a reference to Jane Austen's wonderful work of juvenilia, "Catherine, or the bower." 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Come say hi on [tumblr](http://non.nonmodernist.com)?


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